


Light Me Up

by ipsilateral



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 01:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12098046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipsilateral/pseuds/ipsilateral
Summary: "You're like, grossly self-confident," Timothée says, even though it's not true."Only for some things," Armie says.





	Light Me Up

Armie orders another bottle of wine just as the sun sets. "Because why not," he shrugs, and that's good enough for Timothée.

The weather has been awful the past few days, muggy and thick, weighing heavy with every breath. At this point they're almost 4 weeks into their month-long blind date, as Armie calls it. Shooting will start on Monday but it's hard to imagine -- Timothée feels like he's been on vacation this whole time, or maybe at an inappropriate summer camp that consists of eating a shit-ton of carbs (Armie) or gelato (Timothée) and getting wasted (both of them) and dancing around to Tame Impala at 3am (Armie, mostly). 

"This one girl I dated at NYU, she told me that dating me was like trying to drive with the parking brake on," Timothée says, maybe apropos of nothing. He can't really remember what they'd been talking about before. His wineglass is somehow full again.

Armie laughs in a single syllable, that loud bark of noise he makes when something surprises him into a nostalgic thought. "Can't say I haven't had similar things said to me," he says, then shakes his head and adds, "Maybe a lifetime ago, though. God, you make me feel like a million-year-old infant." 

"What does that even mean," Timothée cracks up.

"You know what it means, you punk," Armie scoffs. "Part of what it means is that all is well and good right now, two bottles of wine deep, but tomorrow morning I'll be feeling like freeze-dried shit and you'll be totally fine."

Timothée laughs again. They _are_ almost two bottles of wine deep, and that's not counting the beers during dinner. "Whatever. I usually don't even drink. Clearly you're influencing me way too much already."

Armie just raises his eyebrows over his wineglass as he finishes off what's left. "Oh, but we have so much more time left together," he says mysteriously. "At this rate we're gonna fall in love two days into shooting."

"If I fall in love with you, it's probably Stockholm Syndrome," Timothée says. 

"You're right, I'm not your type," Armie muses, refilling his glass. "You'd match better with that girl who works in the cafe we went to last week. You guys could move to Alaska and avoid daylight together for the rest of your lives."

It's true that Timothée still hasn't gotten any more tan, even after weeks under the scorching Italian sun. He thinks of the camera test earlier that day, how pale he looked compared to Armie. He'd rolled in close, settled into Armie as if he'd been doing it every day of his life. From that angle, everything had been a golden skin-colored blur that reminded him of wheat fields.

Finally, Timothée just says, "Fuck off," and waves at Armie like he's batting away gnats. "I changed my mind -- if I fall in love with you, I've definitely just gone plain crazy." 

"If," Armie echoes.

"You're like, grossly self-confident," Timothée says, even though it's not true.

"Only for some things," Armie says. He almost manages not to smile. 

"Fuck off," Timothée says again. 

Armie just laughs. He grabs the empty bottle and starts looking around for anyone who can bring them another one. Timothée watches him for a second, then finds himself buoyed further into that memory of the girl at NYU. 

"I just think it should feel easier than this," he'd yelled at one point while they were breaking up. Later, alone in his apartment, he had laughed at himself, half-embarrassed about saying something that sounded so stupid -- but also half-embarrassed about how fiercely sincere he was about it. 

That's what he feels like now, looking at Armie. Half-embarrassed, half-sincere, half-who the hell knows what. It's close to 11pm now and he's still sweating lightly under his collar, on his scalp. They'll probably call it a night after a third bottle of wine and head back to Armie's place. Timothée's toothbrush is there, and his bookbag. He accidentally spilled cranberry juice on the sheets earlier that day while they were on the bed doing a read-through; he'll have to remember to clean that up.

 _If_ , Armie had repeated. If, if, if.

When Timothée tunes back in to the present, he sees that Armie has set the empty bottle back on the table. Apparently he's given up on procuring more wine. Probably a good thing. "It might be a sign to leave if the entire waitstaff is ignoring you," Timothée tells him.

"Yeah, yeah," says Armie. He stretches and sighs loudly before he puts his hands on the armrests, jutting his elbows out like wings. "Ready?"

Timothée wants to say, _no_. Or, _who knows, man_. Or, _you tell me_.

Instead he pushes his chair back and says, "Yep. Ready."


End file.
